Misplaced
by Lulu-Lola-Lovely
Summary: Drabbles, one-shots, bits and blurbs. Everything varies from light to dark, serious to playful, etc. Mainly Anya-centric *my OC in Unlikely*
1. Eight and Blue 1

I thought I'd try this out, just for something new. It'll probably be updated more frequently than the story itself, because one-shots and drabble are so much easier to write. This itself is just a bunch of random "Anya" moments, in some semblance of order. I guess this will be continued/discontinued on reviews, or interest. I think it's fun, and it's a way to clear out some of the pesky randoms that threaten to Mary-Sue my story. Some of this will make sense, if I take that route, but otherwise it's just random lines.

As always, I don't own the X-Men, any Marvel characters, franchises, images, brands, etc.

* * *

Anya Wilson resides in the studio apartment up on Eight and Blue; Adanya Winters is long since dead, and no other name seems to feel right to her. The neighbors took her as a cute college girl, a little dusty and archaic, but cute and fun nevertheless. Wilson was _his_ name; she had no right to take it. But she never says this out loud.

* * *

"Jack Hammer?" She'd giggled for two solid minutes. "I think I'll just call you Weasel."

* * *

Africa is a nightmare better left untouched, but sometimes it creeps back up on her, about once every six months or so, when she reaches down and touches wet, sticky bed sheets and sees her palm slick with blood. Half the neighborhood awakens to a high soprano scream of terror, and it's beyond anything Weasel can gimmick together to hunt her down; Wade has to do it alone. It's usually easy; he finds her in an alley and sits with her until the shaking ceases, wraps his arms around her and kneels, forehead to hers, and wills her to come back out of the jungle.

* * *

"You guys are gonna get AIDs blood all over your hands," Anya stood just outside the circle of men, kicking Weasel. The men's bathroom had brighter, harsher lighting than the ladies' room.

They dashed for the sinks, screaming epithets. "I don't have AIDs," He stared up at her, light shining through her hair like a halo. God she was pretty.

"You know that," She hauled him up easily. "I know that." She cast a glance at the thugs, scrubbing their shoes. "They don't know that."

* * *

Sometimes, when the skies break loose with thunder and lightening, and her power skitzs and the lights flicker, she really, _really_ misses having Chris around.

* * *

Fred Dukes looked her up; apparently he was lonesome and in need of a friend. Anya talked to him for maybe five minutes before she gave him Jimmy's number, because she just _knows_ it won't end well if Wade hears about her flying out to Vegas to see fat-ass Freddy.

* * *

"Anya! Miss Anya! You wanna see my kitty!" Squeaker, the little girl three floors down, proudly displayed her orange tabby. "His name's Tigger, like from Winnie the Pooh." She cuddled the small beast, her smile warm and bright. "You want one? We got one that looks like a real tiger!" Her hazel eyes popped excitedly.

"No thanks, sweetie, my days of taming tigers are long over." She ruffled the pipsqueak's hair gently, shouldering her backpack. Wade didn't like cats anyway; they made him think of Victor.

* * *

She got a letter from Jimmy the other week; Kayla gave birth to a gorgeous little girl. He'd been kind enough to give her a picture, but she'd put it away without looking, or letting Wade see. Some things never fade away, and Africa is no exception to that rule.

* * *

"You should feel special," Weasel comments over cold Chinese food one afternoon, dumping entirely too much peanut sauce on his chicken satay. "He keeps better track of you than he does his masks."

Anya poked her rice with her chopsticks moodily. "You should feel special too," She suddenly wasn't very hungry. "That he trusts you enough to be alone with me."

* * *

Weasel tried really hard to keep her updated. He called her, before and after jobs, sometimes during. When Deadpool disappeared, he called to give her fair warning. When they were in town, he called her. When they left town, he called her. He kept telling Wade he hated phone calls, that lines could be traced...but all in all, Weasel called her a lot.

* * *

"You are _mine_, Anya,"

"You're _hurting_ me."

"Bring anyone else home and I'll really hurt you."

"Home?" She stared at him, her eyes beginning to tear up. Her arms burned where he held her. "This is your home?"

* * *

She stopped letting people walk her up to her apartment, right around the time Wade started popping up to watch television and raid her fridge. The last date she'd been on ended with her poor beau literally pissing himself when Wade popped up and yelled; he didn't know she had company. He never liked her company either. It was just easier to walk alone.

* * *

It was a long, bloody night when she finally talked him out of his costume, his 'uniform'. Deadpool's black and red suit lay draped over her shower curtain, drip-drying in her bathtub while she sewed up the more stubborn holes and gashes, and Wade made small, almost whimpery noises she pretended not to hear. They brought him low, making him look like this.

* * *

He won't let her fix his skin, not even when she offered gently over her sewing needle. It was a simple fix, reprogramming the healing factor and overriding the sequence that refreshes and thickens the scar tissue. He never agrees; she nearly lost a hand the last time. Part of her thinks he feels like the scars on his body should match the scars of his soul. Another part of her thinks he's afraid of what he might do to her if he looks like the old Wade Wilson again.

* * *

Sometimes, during quiet rainy-day moments or commercial breaks, she catches him watching her instead of the television. He won't touch her anymore, or even play unless she starts it, but he will sit and stare and memorize her, until Golden Girls comes back on.

* * *

Wade is not, by any means, a sane man. Anya is not, by any means, a crazy lady. Together they seem to work. Weasel, their faithful pet, thinks this is cute.

* * *

Anya keeps thick black markers in her kitchen, much to the surprise of her elderly neighbor Mitzi. She labels everything with a huge **A.W**. or **W.W.** Mitzi doesn't understand, because sweet Anya lives alone, until the phone rings and a loud voice screams _Brownies_ before the line goes dead, and poor Anya sighs before labeling a fresh bakery box **W.W. **"I was gonna eat those too,"

* * *

"Anya," The blankets moved, lifting off her bare legs. An eddy of cool air swirled over her satin-clad skin. "Scoot over," The thrill of warm, bare skin against her own followed. Obligingly, she moved to her right, scooting a spare pillow to the left, settling herself again with a gentle sigh. She always slept better when he came to bed.


	2. Eight and Blue 2

The most painful thing about sleeping beside Wade – _Deadpool_, was waking up alone and cold. He'd only decide to go to _her_ bed after she'd been asleep for a while, and he never lingered past waking hours. A few times, Anya had woken herself up biting the pillow to muffle her screams, or shaking and sweating, and he'd slung an arm over her to calm her down, but it was always with her back to him and the blankets between her back and his chest. Frail as his faith in her (or anyone, really) was, she never dared to look at him, fearing she'd end up like Lot's wife; only she'd be a cold and lonely girl instead of a salt pillar. Nobody else got her, or got to her quite like Wade – _Deadpool_, dammit, and she wasn't sure she could live without it.

* * *

"I have homework," She capped her pink highlighter, blowing lightly on the Xeroxed papers. "Watch porn with Weasel,"

Deadpool ignored the pucker of her lips, the soft, bare curve of her shoulder. "He's not as fun as you," Her pajamas lost some of their sophistication on 'study nights', alternating from the usual slinky nighties to oversize tee shirts and leggings.

"Whatever," She pushed her reading glasses, they made her look like Marion the Librarian, back up her nose and leaned over a book.

"Anya,"

"I am not watching porn with you," She closed her books, shutting off her laptop. "I'm not much of a porn watcher,"

"Please?" He gave her puppy eyes under the mask, hoping it translated well. "I made popcorn without burning down the kitchen, I'll let you eat some."

The glasses came off. "Well, you did say please."

* * *

"I don't think so, Taylor, I'm just not into it tonight." She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, a prickle playing over the back of her neck.

"Oh come on, Anya," Taylor was tall, dark, and built like an underwear model. "We're all going and you never come with us," He pouted his soft, kissable lips, earning a small smile. "I'll make the puppy face if I have to."

"Pizza and bowling isn't high on my priority list," She shrugged, copying down the date of the next study group on her palm. "I have a paper due, and I'm working on my thesis, and..." He pressed a finger to her lips.

"Fine," He flashed her a perfect smile, a dimple playing in his right cheek. "Then we'll get Chinese and lite beer and have a study date." He stroked her cheek softly with the pad of his thumb. "All work and no play makes Anya a depressed girl, and I can't have that. You're too pretty to be sad."

She pushed his hand away, rubbing her cheek ruefully. "I don't drink," She closed her eyes, banishing thoughts of Wade and the way he used to do that. "And I try not to date within my circle, it gets weird."

"You don't date at all."

"I'm _busy_," She widened her eyes. "Not all of us are brilliant, damn near pre-med, trust funds boys," She shouldered her backpack again. "I'm on scholarships and grants, I have to make the most of everything I can get right now."

"Don't be so melodramatic,"

"Anya!" A short, skinny man wearing a sweatshirt at least two sizes too big hustled over. "Anya!"

"Weasel!" She threw her arms around his neck, allowing herself to be picked up and swung in a half circle. "You're back?" She looked around, steady on her feet with her arms still around him. "But where's..." She fixed her backpack strap, looking around excitedly.

"Weasel?" Taylor gave them both a plaintive, '_what the hell is wrong with you?_' look. "What kind of a name is that?"

"It's his," She glared over her shoulder, allowing Weasel to sling an arm around her. "I'll see you around, Taylor,"

* * *

"You opened my mail?" She saw a sheet of neatly folded, scented stationary on the table. _Kayla's _stationary.

"Says Wilson," He waved the envelope at her.

"Your name's _Deadpool_," She stared at the envelope in his hand. "Wade Wilson's gone, remember? You keep telling me."

"She's cute," Kendrick in her first school picture, with a blue ribbon tied in her shiny dark hair. She took after her mother, right down to her smile.

"Wade," She kept everything, _everything_, about Kendrick put away, usually unopened and out of sight, just to avoid moments like this.

"You think this is what she'd look like?" He held the picture up "Older, but..."

"Please don't,"

"You walked away from me, Anya," A rare moment of utterly sober clarity had made him remember Jimmy carrying her away, the way she peeked over his shoulder. The harsh way Victor kicked aside the bucket after they'd vanished into the dense foliage.

_I was carried, remember?_ "I called for you," Tears glittered on her face. "You ignored me."

"Jimmy took you," The furry, swarthy bastard threw down his tags, scooped up the girl, and never looked back, not even once.

"I was bleeding out, I could have died." She looked up, startled at the shift in his colors. "He saved me, I would have died from infection otherwise; Stryker didn't care about me, he had you. He wanted me to die in the labs, Africa was just convenient."

"He took you from me," His gloved fingers curled around the photo, crushing it.

"Wade." She put enough force into the word to make him lift his gaze, masked as it was, to hers. "Don't even think it, that wasn't his fault, that was _Stryker_."

"How old would she be?"

"Grown," She sniffled, wiping her eyes uselessly. The tears kept coming; they would no matter what she did. "Twenty-three, twenty-four, probably in college,"

* * *

_"I know the distance is a factor, but I stretch as often as I can, my goal's to reach your hands any day now."_

Weasel shrugged off his coat, following the cool sound of Anya's voice. _"Please don't blame me for trying, to fix this one last time, I have a hard time as it is."_

_"Because I miss your love, I miss you love, I miss you...love,"_

He stood, watching her idly playing her guitar, her eyes on the notebook in front of her, her back to him. _"Don't act like you don't know me, it's still me I never changed, I'll be here when you come back."_

"That's pretty, Anya," She looked like an angel, sunlight streaming through the open windows, picking up the reddish tints in her hair, lighting up her face when she turned around to look at him.

"How long have you been listening?"

"Couple minutes," He held up a paper sack from the fruit stand. "I brought apples."

"You were listening?" She'd gone on for two hours the other night about wanting an apple, but Deadpool didn't let her out of the house after dark unless he was with her, and he wasn't giving up _Maude_ for a piece of fruit he wasn't going to eat.

"One of us does," He grinned at her. "So, you're writing music again?"

"Little bit," She closed the notebook secretively, tucking it under her pillow.

"It's about him, huh?"

"Oh jeeze, this isn't going to pan out to one of those horrible conversations that I have with Jimmy, that I'm pining over a loser who doesn't appreciate me nearly enough, and doesn't treat me right, and doesn't deserve my love, and that there's a sweet, loving, devoted guy in the room that I'm overlooking, but who secretly wants to be with me, and _is_ everything I think the jerk can be, is it?" She heaved a huge, drawn-out sigh. "Because I hate those conversations; they spoil everything and ruin friendships."

"Anya,"

"What the shy, quiet _other guy_ doesn't realize is that he doesn't really want me, he just wants someone to be devoted to him, someone idyllic and reverent like I am." She flopped back on her bed, kicking aside a notebook. "Please tell me it's not that conversation, Wease,"

"So…" He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. "You want an apple?"

* * *

Credit where it is due: "Miss You Love"; Maria Mena. And huge thank-yous to Reya Wild for both reviewing and Favoriting, Sara Garwin for Favoriting and Alerting, and angelwingz21 for Alerting


	3. Eight and Blue 3

Weasel notices things.

He noticed, right away, when Anya set up a spare room with six locks and two deadbolts on the door for Deadpool, and somehow came into possession of a huge flat-screen television and a fold-and-store futon for him in her living room. He noticed how the futon always smelled faintly of _Febreeze_, clean sheets were always tucked in the cabinet of her coffee table (like he ever bothered to use them) and the pale blue comforter she kept folded on the back of the couch was soft and smelled gently of lilacs and fresh spring rain.

He notices Wade wince when Anya brought down a huge patchwork quilt for him, and pretends not to see the bittersweet sadness in her eyes when she walks away, never seeing him wrap the blanket around himself and breathe in deeply, as though it was the only source of oxygen to be found, because the light scent of her perfume lingers in the fabric until he has to wash it.

Weasel noticed, with wry smirks and small _wah-tss_ sounds under his breath, that Anya's favorite snuggly blanket disappeared when the quilt finally made it to the washing machine, and didn't return for a good two weeks after, forcing her to use the quilt when she got too cold. He noticed the look of surprise on her face when Deadpool strolled in one afternoon, dumped the purloined blanket at her feet unceremoniously, and snatched up the quilt with a "_Nyah!_" for her trouble.

He tries not to see it when Anya's upset over something stupid, when she turns to Wade for comfort. Bad enough he knows he'll never get the girl, he doesn't want to be 'the other guy on the couch' just because he's Deadpool's best bud…and he really wants to get paid for that last job in Mexico.

He notices that Deadpool's been trying to take care of Anya, mostly stupid little things like bullying her landlord into getting a freakishly extravagant security system, and a doorman, almost like he really does lo— _care_ about her as more than just 'another groupie'. He pretends not to see 'Pool touching her hair, or studying her hands, or carrying her up to bed when she falls asleep on the couch, or offhandedly giving her something she hadn't asked for yet. Hell, he _ignores_ the fact that the psycho makes a regular habit to crawl into bed with her.

He notices all the cutesy,_ girlfriend _things Anya does, for _both_ of them. He noticed that she seemed to keep a ton more junk on hand, more Ding Dongs and cheese puffs than the average college student rightfully should, and has relegated only one shelf in the fridge, and one grocery cabinet in the kitchen as hers. Anything they left, she washed, ironed, folded and put away for when they came back. He saw her, on more than one occasion, cover Deadpool with a blanket when he fell asleep on the damn futon, watching porn in his underwear. She brought them both aspirin and orange juice when Sandi's special New Year's concoction made them sicker than dogs, and not once did she crack a Brokeback joke when she saw them huddled on her bathroom floor.

He noticed that Anya understood the concept of all great thinking being done best in the bathroom. To aid in this mission, she very graciously accommodated the genius thinker, and in short order, the bathroom lost all the frou-frou décor and little seashell soaps; there was a stash of magazines (none of them anything Anya would own up to purchasing) under the sink, beside stacked rolls of toilet paper and a pump bottle of hand lotion for sensitive skin.

He notices Deadpool seems…calmer, between jobs, when they spend time at Anya's place. He doesn't lose time as often, or near as much for that matter. 'Pool's easier to keep track of, there seem to be fewer limbs to regenerate, less blood is mopped up from the bathroom floor…and his ass isn't near as sore, because of the (blessed) reduction of sentimental-aversion wedgies. Sometimes, he's coming to notice more and more often, when 'Pool's with Anya, he can be downright…human. Normal even.

He notices that Wade likes to gossip, brag, chatter…the man talks his head off to Anya about anyone and anything from the height (or lack thereof) of Patch, to the line of Outlaw's bikini wax. He gossips about T-Ray, and C.F. and the others in his 'gang' from down at The Hell House, and Anya listens and nods her head, and picks up all sort of strange little tidbits about strangers, and knows what they like and how best to avoid letting Wade's crazy-train of a brain veer off into the direction of Typhoid Mary's little black panty ensemble, and how to bring conversation to a screeching halt when he muses if Syren's a moaner or a screamer.

Deadpool never talks about her to them, Weasel noticed, and _almost_ said her name aloud in the bar…

Five weeks later, he still rubs his jaw and accepts the vicodin Anya offers, with a glass of water and a sympathetic smile as she adjusts his pillow. "How you managed to break your jaw is beyond me, Wease," She smelled like pink roses and bubblegum. "You've got to be more careful."

* * *

This is the point where I should say something deep and meaningful…but I got nothing. Oh, and for anyone looking for a semblance of continuity, the chapters now have titles as per what arc they follow. Eight and Blue follows a sort of cracked flow, if you look for it, and it'll continue as the chapters start to form a drabble-story.


	4. Random fluff

Lola presents…fluff, done three ways.

* * *

"Wade!" For the ninth time that day, her shirt was hiked up and his smooth, gentle palm flattened over her belly.

"Shh,"

"Stop that!" It tickled, mostly, and it was annoying as all hell. "I'm trying to sleep,"

"Shh," An arm over her hips prevented her from rolling over. "You're interrupting my tummy time."

"Wade, the baby is approximately six weeks old. It doesn't have ears yet." Anya sighed and resigned herself to her fate. For the sixth time in two days, Wade sprawled out beside her and began a rather lengthy conversation with her belly button.

"Uh huh," He leaned in closer, his breath warm on her skin. "Uh huh," Little bit closer, and he was using her for a pillow. "Yes, I'll tell her." Wade sat back, looking rather pleased with himself. "He says _I am_ the awesome one, and he has a hot mom," He poked her stomach indignantly. "You watch your mouth mister, she's a married lady!"

"Why?" She looked at her hand, her wedding ring winking at her mockingly. "Why did I say yes?"

* * *

"What the hell is that?" Anya sat on their balcony; a coffee can perched on a couple bricks spouting flames in front of her.

"S'more," Anya blew her marshmallow off daintily, listening to the faint sizzle of scorched sugar. Wade closed the sliding door and watched her, bemused.

"In English?" She had a plate waiting, with chocolate and graham crackers, an open bag of the puffy sweets beside her.

"Graham crackers, marshmallow and chocolate," She slapped half a candy bar on a graham cracker, and held it under the marshmallow, using another cracker to sandwich it in place. "Burn the marshmallow and smash it between the crackers with the chocolate." She slid the stick out neatly. "Then you eat it." She held the mashed goodie out to him. "Want a bite?"

"You're weird." Wade grinned. "You eat it,"

She licked a drip of chocolate from the bottom before it could spatter her clothes. "How can you not have had this before?" She took a huge bite of her gooey, melty, crumbly confection. "Ith's pracly 'merican tradithon."

"My old man wasn't into cooking," He sat beside her, looking at the tiny fire pensively. "Or camping, or father-son activities that didn't involve him throwing beer cans or yelling." He slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her up into his lap. "Pretty sure he never thought about making s'mores on the back patio,"

"Wade," She flushed miserably. "I didn't mean to…" It seemed like ever since they'd moved into the apartment, she kept saying and doing the wrong things, over and over, and he never seemed quite as carefree when she messed up.

"Don't worry about it," He stole the last bite of her treat, watching her lick the melted marshmallow from her fingers. "Make me one." She smiled for him, jamming fresh marshmallows onto the stick.

* * *

"Daddy!" The bedroom door swung open. "Daddy, wake up, it's Christmas!" A slight weight in the form of his six-year-old daughter landed on the bed next to him.

"Angela?" She bounced around the bed excitedly, coming dangerously close to landing on his nether regions. "Where's your brother?" Harley was over the moon about following her around, and she'd figured out that it was just easier to haul him with her.

"Da!" He felt baby drool seep onto his ear. "Da, up! Up, Da!"

"Hey Harley," Wade scooped an arm around his son, pulling him closer. "C'mere little man, how's your morning?" Companionably, Harley crawled onto Wade's chest and settled down, relating the morning's events in his baby babble that was quickly coming to form real words.

"Really?" Harley's babble ceased for a moment. "That is amazing, little man, did she really?"

"_Dad-ee_!" Angela landed beside him, her dark hair still tied up in last night's braids. "Get up, Mommy says we can't open presents without you!" Tiny fists pummeled his shoulder playfully. "Get up, get up, _get up_!"

"Geddup, Da-ee!" Harley chimed, bouncing, grinning gummily when Angela scooped him up, kissing both cheeks and squeezing him with another excited little squeal.

"See, even Harley agrees with me," She hugged her brother tighter. "I taught him that, y'know, I'm helping teach him how to talk." She let go, and her brother scooted back to his place on Wade's chest. "Mommy says he's the smartest baby in his playgroup, 'cause of _me_." She frowned at him. "Why aren't you up yet, lazy?"

"I'm tired, babe," He caught Harley's hand, amazed as ever that these were _his_ kids, in _his_ house, and this was really _his_ life. "Some weirdo in a red suit tried breaking into our house last night, I had to bust out my super secret ninja skills." Harley giggled, his baby brown eyes bright.

Angela was horrified. "You beat up _Santa_?" Her mouth dropped open. "_Daddy!_" She squeaked indignantly, lunging off the bed. "I'm telling Mommy!" She straightened her nightgown and leggings, glaring at him. "C'mon Harley, we don't need this." She held her arms out. "Come on, let's go tell Mommy."

"Da," Harley crawled the edge of the bed. "Da, up!"

"No, Harley," Angela leaned up, scooping her arms around Harley's diapered behind. "Daddy wants to _sleep_, an' he needs his rest, you know how cranky old men get." She gave a huffy little sigh she'd picked up at school. "Hmph, he already beat up Santa, bet we don't get any presents this year."

"Drama queen," Wade rolled over and mussed her hair affectionately. "You get that from your mother."

"Lazy butt," She retorted, hefting her brother off the bed carefully. "You're missing all the cartoons." Harley hugged around her neck companionably, clinging as tightly as his older sister held onto him.

"It's eight in the morning, Angel!" Wade flopped back on Anya's pillow. "What happened to letting your old man sleep?"

"Snoopy comes on later," She called loftily, over her shoulder, already sauntering down the hall. He sat up in time to see her sit down on the top stair, Harley clutched on her lap. "Mommy's making breakfast, she said you've got a present in the bathroom!"

"The bathroom?" Wade sat up, throwing back the covers. He didn't bother making the bed, Anya'd only come in after him and strip it.

"What she said," Angela yelled back, bumping down the stairs one at a time, talking to Harley.

Wade padded to the bathroom and flicked on the light; no monsters. He looked around at the white and blue color scheme, the towels draped over the rack, the mirror spotless as ever, a library book of hairstyles set near the make-up mirror, an open tube of toothpaste (oops) oozing red into the sink. He let his gaze travel ambiguously, the better to spot something out of the…

A white stick lay on a tissue on the side of the sink, near her hairbrush. No special marking, no discarded box, no flowers or balloons or screaming _"we're pregnant!"_. They simply weren't those people. When she was pregnant with Angela, she just handed the stick to him in a plastic bag with their take-out Chinese food. Harley was announced by their precious Angel during a funereal for one of her friends' grandparents, just after the minister finished giving a sermon about the blessings of life and the transition of death.

"_Daddy, did that lady die to make room for the baby?" _She looked so pretty in her dark blue dress, and she'd been such a trooper, hugging everyone she looked at._ "'Cause she didn't have to, babies aren't that big, they don't take up a whole lot of space."_

The almighty white stick. Upside down, because she was either being a tease, or she didn't want him to be disappointed. _Then again_, Wade mused, _she wouldn't leave it out if it was negative_._ Or_, another little voice piped up_, she didn't take it yet, but she thinks she's pregnant, so you'll find out later_.

"Shut up, brain," He picked up the little wand gingerly, and turned it over.

Pink.

Pink meant positive.

Postive meant…

"Anya!"

* * *

Ta-da!


	5. Unlikely Deleted Scene: Lost

This is the first **official **Deleted Scene from Unlikely.

* * *

Clad in sweatpants and a huge pullover shirt, with her ironed hair in a limp, bland ponytail, she was anything but the sexy minx he was used to being greeted by. "Hey sexy," Wade wrapped an arm around his girlfriend's waist, pulling her to him. "You miss me?" He leaned in for a kiss.

Anya leaned back. "Ugh, don't, I think I might throw up." Normally, she lived for those 'welcome back' moments, for any sort of affection between them, but today was not her day.

"That's my sexy girlfriend," He grinned.

"Would you rather I lie, and just randomly upchuck after you kiss me?" Anya glared at him from the fringe of her overlong bangs.

Wade draped the other arm around her, holding her snugly. "You smell like antiseptic," He murmured to the top of her head, placing a kiss there. "That is oddly sexy."

"Well you smell like a goddamn clover field," She shoved him, hard. "I'm just so happy to see you too." She winced, pain lancing through her abdomen. Unwittingly, she hugged her arms over her stomach, willing it to ease.

"And they say I have claws," Victor muttered from behind his beer.

"Where are you going?" Wade watched her, a bit puzzled, when she ambled away from him, still holding her gut.

"I smell like antiseptic, therefore, I'm going to take a shower." She paused, looking back over her shoulder. "I'm cold and I feel like crap, and I smell like lab cleanser, so I'm gonna take a shower."

He pointed to 'their' chair, beside the couch. "Sit down," Against her better judgment, she followed his lead. "Jeeze, you are a grumpy little bunny," He sat down, dragging her onto his lap. "I get home thinking you're gonna be all soft and cuddly and you act like you hate me," He kissed her cheek, snuggling her into his arms more securely. "I didn't curse you, blame your gender for that lovely gift."

"Whatever," She leaned back into him, the warmth of his body overpowering her chill. "Just do that thing where you put your arm around me and I feel better, okay?" She curled up at his side, heat bleeding through his clothing. His arm was a snug, welcome weight over her side. "Thank you,"

Chris allowed her to get settled before he interrupted. "What was it?" She wasn't allowed to go on the mission with them, a total waste of time as it was, Frost and Daniels wanted to keep her for observation, in case her powers were backfiring and the pain was something more serious than normal cramps.

"Girl problems." Anya lied easily, sinking into Wade's side, letting him stroke her hair. "Apparently, they stuck me with needles for nothing, it didn't work as well as they wanted." Frost had been giving her injections of some hormone suppressant, to stop her periods.

"Okay," He nodded, taking her answer for what it was worth before he let his head drop to the couch cushion. "Glad you're feeling better,"

* * *

"Wade?" She felt warm and sleepy, almost comfortable despite the lingering twinges in her belly.

"Hm?" He was almost asleep, she could tell, from the sound of his breathing. Must've been a bitch job, if they were all tired enough to sleep in the common room.

"You ever wonder what it feels like to die," She whispered quietly, her voice hoarse. "Before you ever know you're alive?"

"What brought that on?" Wide-awake now, he stared at her. "Anya?" She slipped off his lap, a rush of cold space taking over the warmth where she'd been.

"I mean, how do you know you're alive? When does it start?" She sat on the arm of his chair, looking down at him. "When do you go, Hey, I'm a living thing."

"Anya," His eyes darkened as he sat straighter, trying to grab her hands, keep her still. "What's going on?"

"It's stupid," She shook her head, running a shaky hand over her hair. "Forget I said it." She slid off the chair, never waking any of her sleeping teammates, and stumbled toward the hall, heading for the shower room. "Was only three weeks anyway,"

* * *

This was one of those moments where I went...I cannot make this fit. I wanted it, I like it, and I want to do more with it, but it's sad and little and lonely. Makes me wanna sniffle.

And if anyone missed it; Anya miscarried. It's a touchy subject, and I know a few people that have suffered this misery, but I didn't want to overload it.


	6. Unlikely Deleted Scene: Color

I envision this taking place in Mexico, for some reason. Probably the warm weather. Anyhow, the set up is simple; after a successful mission, Team X is allowed to roam freely, as per usual. Somewhere along the way, Anya loses her boyfriend to the nightlife. The morning after, when they're supposed to regroup, Wade is MIA and Adanya decides to find him.

* * *

"I found Wade," Adanya jerked a thumb over her shoulder, at the blue door she stood in front of. "He's busy, sir, maybe we should give him a minute." She held the doorknob, keeping the door closed. Behind it, someone yelled her name and jerked on the knob, an angry fist pounding against the wood.

"Soldier," Stryker's brow furrowed as he watched her holding the door; angry and vicious and horribly wounded.

She arched a brow. "I said he's _busy_," She replied tartly, flashing some attitude of her own. "Don't believe me, ask Jimmy and Victor, I'm sure they can smell her." She let go of the doorknob, crossing her arms under her breasts as she walked away.

"Her?" Bolt mouthed, looking at Dukes. "_Her_?" The only _her_ they associated with Wade was Adanya, and she was right in front of them.

"Anya!" The door flew open with a _bang_, the musky scent of sex billowing out through the rectangle as fresh air flowed in. Bolt could see a thin girl pull a sheet up to her chest, shrieking like a banshee. Under the smell of sex the woofier, sage-like scent of marijuana chased out on the sweet, flower-perfumed air.

She turned around, half a foot away from him. "Pull your pants up, Wade." They were pooled around his ankles, rather absurdly. She gazed at him coldly, a stark contrast to the normally gentle, adoring, sweet thing he called his girlfriend.

"Anya," He jerked his pants back up around his hips, clutching them tightly. "This is not what you think it is," Dark red sucker-marks dotted his bare chest, the length of his torso, scattered over the smooth, tan flesh of his shoulders and throat. She wasn't a fan of hickeys.

"Really?" She scathed, rolling her eyes. "Cause it kinda looks like you were about to give her another good hard fuck," She threw an icy glance at his crotch. "Looks like you're still up for the job, soldier, better get it while you can."

The perfect tone to freeze his blood, his dick going limp against his thigh. "Anya,"

She held a hand up for silence. "No, no, let me guess. You tripped and fell, and on the way down, your pants came off and you landed in her." A dry, humorless laugh choked out of her throat. "Oh, oh, you thought she was me, and it's really just too dark to know the difference, so it's all just a big misunderstanding." Behind him, the girl was stirring, taking another long, deep pull from the blue glass bong between her henna-tattooed feet.

"Anya, I can expl…" She was staring past him, into the cheap, dingy little room; at the naked nymph and the big blue bong, the beer and booze and weed and fresh box of condoms. She didn't like condoms.

Adanya's nose twitched. "What's her name?" She saw empty bottles scattered over the floor, a couple leaking quietly on the stained, grimy carpet. She could smell it on him; Jack Daniels, tequila, vodka…moonshine...like he'd bathed in the liquor.

"What?" He stared at her.

"What's her name?" She repeated coolly. "First and last." Simple, easy questions he could answer in a heartbeat. "What color are her eyes?" She pressed, when he blanched. "What color is her hair?" Her breath caught in her throat, cutting off her words sharply.

"Anya,"

"You don't know, do you?" She exhaled softly, shaking her head. Between the pot, the booze, and the atmosphere, she had to be pretty amazing, if he could remember her name. "What color are _my_ eyes?" She didn't close them to prove her point, but he saw an unfamiliar edge to her gaze, as the color deepened and darkened to a hard black cherry hue.

"Red," Darker when she was angry, flickering like bloody diamonds. "Dark red, like rubies." Jokingly, for her birthday, he'd gotten her a necklace, the eye of Horus, set with the darkest ruby he'd ever seen in his life. She wore it until the chain broke, and she'd yet to find one she liked to replace it.

"And my hair?" She was a sobering influence, cold and fierce, hiding her disappointment behind a thick veil of anger. The happy, carefree fog of dope was lifting from his brain, reminding him just how wonderfully he'd fucked himself.

"Dark brown." She'd been blonde last night, on a whim while she tried out different looks, taking her appearance through every race and ethnicity they could describe for her. She made for a pretty cute Irish, and a gorgeous Egyptian, but not so good for a Scandinavian.

"And my name?" Eyes shut, she sounded close to crying.

"Adanya Natalia Winters," He hated seeing her cry, was even worse when it was his fault. His girlfriend was not supposed to be a sad little bunny, or a grumpy little bunny; she was supposed to be a happy little bunny. Maybe she needed a better boyfriend.

Inwardly, she sighed in relief. He didn't add his name to hers. "How long did it take you to learn all this?" She opened her eyes slowly, looking at the ground between them.

He exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Less than five minutes." He sounded as guilty as he felt. "_Anya_," She recoiled when he reached for her hand, taking three steps back, glaring at him.

"So, what's _her_ name?" She pointed to the half-dressed girl that had stumbled out the open door, holding her thin cotton dress up with both hands. She was cute, with springy reddish-auburn hair and freckles, and looked thoroughly confused. Small breasts, almost flat chested, scrawny and shapeless, like a stick figure.

"Anya," She had to be the only person on the planet that could make him _feel_ shame. "Just listen," Didn't help any that their collective team stood behind her, in both senses of the word, waiting for the moment she cracked.

"I didn't think so." She gave him a last, wry curve of her lips and turned, walking past Stryker, waving a hand in his face as she passed.

A slight gesture, a dainty flick of her wrist; she was done. _All yours_, she taunted silently, walking away. There was an exaggerated swing to her stride, drawing attention to her hips, earning herself a few whistles as she passed. _If you can do it_, she knew Wade was watching her, _I can do it, and I'll do it _better.

She wanted to cry, she wanted to give in to herself, and wail and scream and carry on like a little girl, throw herself into bed and declare her death by heartbreak, swear off romance and drown her sorrows in a couple tubs of ice cream. She wanted Jimmy to come and check on her and pet her hair while she sobbed. She wanted Chris to do something cruel and nasty to Wade for her. She wanted to find someone, _anyone_, and let them catch _her_ just fucking some…some _stranger_. A strange, dark man with big hands and hot breath, someone ugly and twisted and cruel, someone that would leave bruises, bites, break her bones, rough her up…someone they'd _remember_.

Someone that really got to them, that really struck a chord in their heads that sweet little Anya wasn't Wade's back up anymore, she wasn't _his girl_, that she wasn't putting up with him…she wasn't going to be his designated bunny for lonely nights; she was more than that. Someone big and mean and scary, someone so much like them, they'd _have_ to remember, they'd have to know, they'd _fucking well_ remember the day she broke her chain and found someone else to play with.

Because everyone remembered who Wade fucked around with. Even if they didn't tell her.

****

"My name's Pepper," The girl came up right behind him like an old lover, wrapping her arms around his torso, chin on his shoulder. "Pepper Connelly, my eyes are brown and my hair's red." Her breath was warm, smelling of cinnamon candy and Dr. Pepper, on his cheek. "Does that make it better?"

"Doesn't matter," He shrugged her off, not turning around to see her wounded expression. "I like it the other way around."


	7. Unlikely Deleted Scene: Bzz

Um…smutty-silly fluff. Sorta.

Basically this is set on-base, normal setting, and Anya overhears Wade relating a rather…_colorful _story about her in the shower room. Obviously, this breaks a couple of her rules (thou shall not speak of private matters with other people) thou shall not objectify thy girlfriend) and she finds herself having to dole out punishment.

* * *

"So," Wade snuck up behind Anya's chair and slung a casual arm around her waist. "What are we doing tonight, babe?" He nuzzled the side of her neck, earning a squeak of surprise. "I've got a couple ideas for the naughty little showgirl." He looked down at her lap, a textbook open. "C'mon, you can study later, I feel a show stopping number coming on."

"Nuh-uh, you're cut off." She pushed him away easily, rubbing her neck. "Two weeks."

"Anya!" Eyes wide and mouth agape, he stared.

"You know the rule," Anya reminded quietly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "My private life is as private as I can keep it. You're on probation." She folded the corner of her page over, closing her book. "Maybe that'll give you time to think about something else to talk about in the shower room."

"I didn't even say we were fucking, I said..." He stopped short, eyes widening fractionally. Oops. _Damn._

"That's four," She reminded smartly, rapping her palm on his forehead. "Four weeks, Mister Wilson, I hope you're proud of yourself." She slipped off her chair, leaving her book on the table.

"Anya!" Sure, it was fine to be all cute and cuddly on the couch, she'd stopped blushing every time some caught them necking, but the minute he mentioned sex, _not even speaking her name!_, she was all for punishing him.

"Well I'm sorry, but you know the rules." She pulled her hair up into a ponytail, shrugging. "You knew what you were getting into when you made it all _official_," She finger-quoted the word, ignoring Bolt's giggles.

"You wouldn't let me touch anything," Wade reminded sourly. "_Not yet, Wade. I need more time, Wade. God, is that all you ever think about?_ Yes, Anya, mostly it is when you're all…" He stopped himself, drawing a wicked little smirk from his girlfriend. "When you're all turned on and sexy."

"Nice save," Dukes rumbled, taking another long pull of his beer. "Might wanna invest in some lotion, though, I don't think she's gonna let up on account of good behavior." He laughed, low and rich. "Turnin' blue yet, Wade?"

Anya looked skyward, then back at her boyfriend. "And we're back where we started, aren't we?" She folded her arms under her breasts, eyeing his hands. "No touching, no kissing, no petting, no teasing…" She looked at him, ignoring the pout. "Nothing."

Wade scowled. "What are you gonna do, you like..._it_ as much as me," He ignored the disbelieving snort from Bradley. "Probably even more."

Another wicked grin came to her lips. "Don't you worry about me, I'll be ginger peachy." Anya sounded oddly…content, for a girl who was close to being known for tackling her boyfriend when she was feeling _adventurous_. "Remember that thing you bought me, about a month ago?" She leaned closer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "_Bzzz_!"

Wade paled. "You wouldn't." He pointed a shaking finger at her smug grin. "You _couldn't_, that thing's..." _Bigger than me. _And it was faster, and it didn't need a whole lot of attention and…_shut up brain_! "You don't know how to." He grinned triumphantly. "You don't know what to do with it!" He hoped the ploy would work, although it was pretty obvious where it went and what it did.

"What, masturbate?" Anya grinned back. "Oops, that's _six_." She fetched a sigh, shaking her head prettily. "Six weeks," She tried to look miserably contrite, failing gorgeously.

"No! _No!_ When you say it, it counts for time off." Wade pounced, managing to find a tiny, tiny loophole. "Time _off_, you said it…that's at least two weeks off!"

"Still, four weeks." Something in her expression told him he should have pressed for four or five. "A whole month." Another sigh. "That's gonna be something, huh?" She glanced over her shoulder, starting away from him. "You're gonna be wound up tighter than a spring." She giggled again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Something tells me I'm gonna regret this, but I can't break my own rules."

"You are gonna break that rule, missy," Wade caught her arm, steering her back into the counter, cornering her. "You can't resist me." She pressed a fist to her lips, stifling her giggles. "You're gonna take that rule off the books when I'm done with you," Easily he pinned her against the counter, towering over her. "You don't cut off Wade Wilson, Wade Wilson says you get a break!"

"Aw, you're so cute when you're delusional." She leaned up, kissing his nose, breaking his concentration and pushing him back a step. "I think I'm gonna go try out my toy now." She flounced by him, almost skipping to her room, humming idly under her breath.

Wade stared after her hopefully. "Can I watch?"


	8. The Fic

"Name?"

"Alana Parker."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Married?"

"No,"

"_Oh_."

The nurse with the clipboard made no sign of surprise or concern. "Date of your last cycle?"

"Were you assaulted?" The smaller woman inquired, her small voice frightened.

"Minnie!" The larger woman snapped, a burst of red coming to her horsy face. "That's irrelevant; she's here for a medical procedure, not the third degree!" Her tone, as well as her eyes, softened considerably when she turned back to the teenager trembling in the cold metal folding chair, looking deeply into her large ruby eyes. "Please don't mind her, she's new."

_Assaulted_, the real assault was the tag teaming of doctors they kept throwing at her, repeating the same set of questions over and over, trying to soothe her nerves while protestors marched and chanted less than twenty feet outside. _Sidewalk counselors_ they called themselves, hurling rocks when she passed in silence. Assault, hmpf, she was better off just walking her happy little ass down the block and checking in at the bar on the corner. Wade was right; therapist came right out with the label on the can. _The rapist_.

"No." She blinked several times, her eyes wide. "I wasn't assaulted."

"Oh," Minnie, as she was called, shrank back in her chair a little, watching her with beady eyes.

"When was your last cycle?" The nurse inquired kindly, in a much gentler tone, almost motherly.

"Three weeks ago." She blinked, something icky twisting her guts into knots.

"Have you been to a regular doctor to confirm?" The nurse continued, making notes on her chart.

"Yes," She lied. "I've also been tested twice here," Not a lie, but the doctor she'd seen didn't believe it was only three weeks. More like two months, according to him, as he sneered at her over his gloves. She didn't like him, or his latex gloves. "Can we just get it over with now?"

"You don't have to be scared," Light caught her nametag as she leaned forward, projecting warmth. _Clara Harrows_. "It's going to be fine." She laid a warm palm on Alana's shoulder. "Have you seen the counselor?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Nurse Harrows followed gently, watching her fidget.

"Yes," She nodded, looking unsure, hands twisting in her lap. "I have to."

"Are you sure?" Harrows didn't look convinced, holding her clipboard on her lap. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to," She set the clipboard aside, leaning forward. "We can find you alternatives if you,"

"No." Alana nearly leapt up from the chair, then sank back weakly. "No, I _can't_...I can't do this." Her long brown hair came loose from the ribbon she'd tied it back with, spilling over her shoulders.

"Calm down, calm down." The sobbing girl lurched forward in her seat, gagging, wrapping her hands around her ankles. "It's okay, Alana, don't get worked up." Harrows rubbed the back of her neck gently. "It's okay, you don't have to do it, you have all the time you need."

"I have to do this." She came up slowly, curtains of dark hair framing her pale face. "I don't have other options, I can't..." She sniffled, nose twitching, and wiped her tears away bravely. "I just need this done, okay?"

"Nobody here's going to judge you," She flicked a hard glance at Minnie. "It's okay, Alana, nobody here is going to think less of you,"

_Liar._

"Come along, then, if you're ready." Minnie stood, her white lab coat falling in soft folds around her. "This way, Miss Parker."

Numbly, the young woman nodded and shoved herself to her feet, following Minnie out the door, to another room.

_Liar._

* * *

"Alana?" A tall, whipcord lean women with black hair cut just below her ears poked her head in the door. "Alana Parker?"

"Yes," She slid off the table, paper crunching under her ass. It made her feel like a slab of meat, to lie on the stark white paper, waiting for some butcher with greasy, beefy hands to wrap her up and sell her off by the pound.

"Hi Alana, I'm Cindy." She flashed a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. "I need you to put this gown on and hop up on the table for me, okay?"

"Kay," She took the paper dress numbly, feeling it crinkle in her hands. _Wad it all up and throw me out, nobody's gonna know the difference anyhow._

"Hey, don't look so scared." She gave a short, nervous laugh. "We're not going to come at you with knives and guns," She reached out and touched the girl's arm, hoping she sounded warm and reassuring. "You won't feel a thing, we're going to give you a local."

Alana looked up shamefully. "I've never done this before,"

"Not many women have," Cindy nodded. "But it's good that you came to us, instead of doing it illegally." For lack of something better to do, she picked up the chart and perused it. "You're very brave, I know it's not easy."

"Yeah," She looked away. "Brave."

"Can I tell you something, Alana?" Cindy didn't wait for a reply, setting the chart down with some finality. "I've had three,"

"Three?" Alana blinked, startled, the crunchy paper gown falling from her hands.

"It's not something I'm especially proud of," Cindy shrugged, distant and almost aloof. "But I think you need to hear it."

"Please don't." She took a step back, bumping into the table, eyes wide and horrified.

"All right." She nodded, turning on her heel. "Alana," She paused, a hand on the doorknob.

"Yes?" The girl had knelt to pick up her gown.

"Being asleep is the best thing to do for yourself," Cindy gave another faux smile. "I'll be back in a few moments."

* * *

"Do you plan on marrying him?" Another nurse, who didn't give her name, eased her back on the table with firm hands on her shoulders, the paper dress crinkling and crunching.

"What?" Alana fought to sit up, a panicky feeling gripping her chest in an iron fist.

"Too many candidates, or do you know what man did this to you?" She paused, turning to the doctor who entered, the lapse allowing Alana to sit up, snapping her knees together modestly. "Doctor,"

"May," He nodded to her. "And you must be Alana."

"I thought I was getting a woman," She hugged her arms over her breasts, cold and stiff beneath the paper dress. "They said my doctor would be female,"

He nodded. "I'm the only available doctor at the moment," Quietly, he washed his hands in the sink. "This is your first time, isn't it Alana?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Hopefully your last, I hate to see girls being so careless with their bodies."

"Right." May grunted, helping him snap into a pair of gloves. "Lie back, Miss Parker, and I'll get you to sleep."

The doctor waved her away, kicking a low stool nearer to the table. "There's going to be some pain," He unscrewed the cap on a tube of lubricant, beside the speculum. A thin, flexible looking tube lay near it. "A little cramping, it shouldn't be worse than your menses." He looked up at the terrified girl. "I won't kill you, I promise."

"Uh-huh," She didn't believe him for a moment, his smile false and plastic.

"What we're going to do is open you up," He showed her the speculum. "And then I'm going to use the pump to clear you out, and the curette to make sure you're all cleaned up and ready to go." He held up the cannula, then the long, narrow curette. "Most women like to know what happens to the…"

"No." She gasped, forgetting to breathe. "I don't want…_oh my God_," She almost started to cry. "I just want to go home. I don't want this," She scooted back up the table, only to be answered with cold, solemn looks.

"No turning back now," May intoned, lifting her foot into the stirrup without asking. "You play, you pay." She yanked the girl back into place. "You broke the rules, little girl, now you deal with the consequences."

"They're going to take you into recovery, when I finish." The doctor continued conversationally, ignoring her protests. "Do you have someone coming to get you?"

"I don't want…" A couple blocks away away, Bradley was sitting in a diner waiting for her. "I don't want this, just let me go home, I won't tell anybody I was here," Beside her, May readied the gas, a mask ready in her hands. She was a big woman. "I know nine ways to break your arm,"

May said nothing, but flicked a glance at the doctor. He nodded, and Alana felt a faint prick in her leg, just behind her knee, and her muscles began to soften. _"Heeey…"_

"Okay," He eased her back, holding her shoulders firmly to the table. "Relax, and when Nurse Jenkins puts the mask over your face, I want you to list presidents for me."

"I do—" Her world went dark.

* * *

"Alana?" The nurse poked her shoulder again. "Is anyone picking up?"

"It's over," She whispered harshly. "You can come get me now." She let the receiver slip from her fingers before she heard a response, letting her head fall back to the pillow limply. She heard a muffled shout, and the receiver was cradled briskly.

"Good girl," Nurse Jenkins picked up the cloth and wiped her down, her motions quick and efficient, neither wasting time nor effort on gentility. "Nurse," She barked at a tiny, shy looking woman with dark hair in a bun at the base of her neck. "Get this girl into recovery."

* * *

"Alana," The shy nurse called, leading the small, squirrelly man through the double-doors. "Alana Parker?"

"Here," She sat up, hissing and gasping. A nurse near her lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Jesus." Bradley looked down the length of the room, at the two rows of beds, mostly filled by girls huddled beneath their sheets in recovery, or lying atop them in waiting. All the women, _girls_, he could see looked pained and miserable, a few sobbing openly, others waiting patiently with books or magazines, some staring up at the ceilings while nurses patrolled the wing, checking beds.

And this was the _legal_ shit.

"Is he your brother?" The shy nurse inquired softly, helping Alana into her jacket.

She slid off the bed, shaky on her feet, but held her own. "No," Alana answered flatly. "I don't have any family."

The shy nurse's hand shot to her throat. "_Oh_," Her brown eyes darkened fractionally, bitterly sad. "Did you want to..." It was on the tip of her tongue to offer a ride to a church, or the local women's services office, but she lost her nerve when the man glared at her.

"Haven't you done enough?" He looked 'Alana' over, his gut churning, eyes narrowing in on the thin line of dried blood that ran from the bottom of her skirt down into her sock, a crude streak along her leg. "Can you walk?"

"Yes,"

He held a hand out to her. "Come on,"

"Alana, wait!" A chubby blonde in glasses jogged down the aisle, holding her belly with one hand, the other outstretched. "Here," She pressed a handful of peppermint candies into Alana's slack hand. "You're not gonna be hungry, but just suck on these and try to eat." She had a stash in her purse, her breath reeked of them. "You'll feel better soon," She nodded fervently, Bradley stared. "It gets easier, I promise." Her fingers wrapped around Alana's wrist as a cramp gripped her belly. "You'll feel better, Lana, you won't hurt anymore, it'll get better."

"Huh," She gazed at the mints, shiny round disks of red and white. "Huh." She vaguely recalled their timid, hushed conversation it the waiting room, the jittery smother of nervous empathy forcing them to be acquaintance friends and nothing more.

"It'll get better," Her big green eyes pleaded as she nodded, a hand pressing flat to her stomach to still a fresh round of cramps. "You didn't do anything bad, Lana, sometimes you _have_ to do it." Those big green eyes filled up with tears as something warm and wet began to seep down her thigh, soaking her panties. "Like Joey said, we ain't ready for this yet, we gotta do what we gotta do."

"Clarissa," A skinny black nurse in white hurried over, prying her hand from Alana's arm. "You're damn near there, girl, get back to the toilets,"

"You ain't bad for it, Lana," Clarissa shouted, the nurse half dragging her back up the aisle. The fluid seeping down her thigh came thicker, spattering the tiled floor. "You ain't bad!"

* * *

She was silent, slumped in the seat beside him, forehead pressed to the window. A nurse at the desk had given her a standard dose of pain pills; she'd shoved them in her pocket with the mints.

"Does it hurt?" He'd walked her out the back, half-carried her past the clutch of pro-lifers lurking around the front, and ended up leaving her at a bus stop until he could get the car pulled around. Now they sat in silence, watching the pro-lifers chanting and pitching fits on the sidewalk.

"Addy?"

"Chris," She answered slowly, in someone else's voice.

"You okay?"

"No,"

They puttered along in eerie silence, her breath fogging the gloss shallowly. "Addy,"

"Don't say anything, okay?" She looked at him, not really seeing him as anything more than a figure driving the car. "He thinks I'm sick, let's leave it at that."

"I thought you knew how." She'd spoken, once while she was drunker than a Saturday night Indian, that she'd cleaned up several girlfriends after their botched, half-assed, butcher abortions, and learned how to still a pregnancy with a thought to spare them the pain. "I thought you could."

"I do," Shamed tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping onto the collar of her blouse. "That doesn't mean I can." She looked at him, her eyes wet and dark. "I'm not sure I could do it again," Her voice was hollow, ashen. "I'm going to Hell, Chris, and I deserve it."

"Addy."

"He'd never believe me," Wade believed he was in the free and clear, because as he was so happy to remind her, he'd had a _vasectomy_ when he'd enlisted as part of Stryker's task force. "It's better this way." What he didn't know, apparently didn't realize, was that his girlfriend was a radiant proximity mutant, and he was just as functioning as anyone else.

"Why?"

"Sometimes the lie is better," Clarissa said that earlier, in the waiting room, before she lost part of her soul. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"You know the shitty thing about that, Addy, is he thinks the same way about you."

* * *

I know where this came from, but I'm not real sure as to where it goes. I thought about sticking it up as a one-shot, titled "The fic" but it's here instead. I think, choppy as it is, I've done something a lot of writers here haven't, and that's actually getting more detailed and in-depth with what I've written. I searched for abortion fics to see how they were responded to.

Personally never had an abortion, and my stance is purely pro-choice, but I tried to showcase all views, as well as several different facets of the clinical aspect. I toned down the doctors/nurses, because I didn't want them to feel farce-like, like I was being too over-the-top to dissuade people from pursuing their medical needs. We've made strides since the seventies, but even then, moving up from the cruelty and stigma, there had to be instances much, much worse than this. I left out parts of my research completely, for the sake of keeping it from being an all out goosh-fest for pervs.


	9. Eight and Blue: Holidays

The Labor Day and Christmas bits are kind of spoiler-y, but if you just disregard some of the details, it should be okay. It's mostly waff anyhow. Christmas is uber crackly!sweet, so you can't say I didn't warn you. Also, I just figured out how to manipulate the library computers into doing what I want them to, so I can start uploading the stuff I've been writing. (squee!)

* * *

"You guys okay?" Anya heard groaning and headed back for the bathroom. "Ew."

"I'm dying!" Weasel moaned, clutching his stomach. "God, Anya, I think this is it." Wade gagged and heaved again. Anya clapped a hand to her mouth to steady her own sympathetic gag reflex. "You wanna kick Wade aside and give a dying man his last wish?"

"Weasel, get over here so I can punch you," Wade leaned up, groping around on the floor, still clinging to the toilet. "I mean it, you shit, get over here,"

"C'mon, Anya, just take off your shirt and lean over me," He made a beckoning motion with his hand.

"Oh my God," Anya leaned back against the door, breathless with laughter. "You must feel like shit, Wease, Wade's less than a foot away from you."

"Wease, I'm gonna get..." Wade fell back with a groan. "Jesus, what'd she put in that stuff?"

"Did you guys drink it or take a bath in it?" Anya slipped her hands under Weasel's arms, hefting him up off the floor and away from the plunger.

"Hey baby," He grinned at her, glasses lopsided. "You come here often?" He paled. "Oh…" Anya held him over the toilet, tuning out the sound of his wretching.

"How much did you drink last night?" Carefully, Anya peeled off Weasel's vomit-stained shirt and wiped his face with it. "Better yet, how the hell did you guys get in here?" She propped him up against the wall, opposite of Wade. If they took turns heaving, they could both use the toilet.

"Jus' a couple of siz packs, an' somma this, somma that." Wade grabbed her little pink trashcan, flipping the lid aside. "Sandy made…" His words died in the deluge of a Technicolor yawn.

Anya groaned. "I just cleaned that yesterday,"

"Anya," Weasel grappled for her ankles, falling over limply. "Need you,"

"You need a doctor." She wrinkled her nose. "I'll be right back."

"Where ya go-"

"I'm gonna find some aspirin," She peeled her sock off and threw it in the hamper. "And ginger ale," She looked at her bathroom once more and sighed. "And then I'm going to make myself some breakfast."

* * *

"Yo,"

She glanced up over her reading glasses. "Hello to you too,"

Wade shook the _Movie Madness_ bag at her. "Movie night,"

"Oh, is it Chick Flick Tuesday, or Scary Movie Tuesday?" Anya laughed, scribbling down another quick formula. "Oh, oh, lemme guess, it is…Zombie Tuesday!"

"Porno night." He tossed the DVD at her. "Brought candy." The bag dropped on the bed, spilling boxes and bags of movie candy over her bedspread. "Popcorn's in the microwave,"

"I Cream for Jeannie," Anya's eyebrow lifted as she examined the blonde, big breasted, pouty lipped porn star on the cover. Jeannie Juggs, in her premier film, barely wearing more than a couple pieces of string and a stick of gum. "You know, most guys just buy roses and chocolate and call it good." She flipped it over, reading the back panel. "Psh, some guys buy flavored lube and expect a blowjob," She handed the movie back. "I'd have just preferred the chocolate." Carefully, she stuck papers in place, closing her notebooks and textbooks on her half-finished homework.

"But she's a naughty nympho genie," Wade mock-pouted. "She's scrummier than chocolate,"

"You want me to dress like Jeannie?" He dropped the movie on her bed, mouth agape. "I think I've got a few scarves around here somewhere." Mostly hair scarves, but it wouldn't take much finagling to get it right. "Valentines Day goes both ways, you know, I have to do something for you, Mister I bought you sex and candy," Books closed; she shoved them off the bed in a swift, deliberate motion. "So," Anya set her reading glasses on the bedside table, leaning forward so he could see clear down her shirt. "What'cha want?" She gazed up at him with wide eyes, feigning girlish innocence while a devil smirk curved her lips.

Wade stuffed a handful of her M&Ms into his mouth, nearly choking himself. He didn't trust himself enough to give her a proper answer.

* * *

_"Pissin' green, green, green," _A cheerful little tune was coming from her bathroom._ "Pissin' green for Saint Paddy's day!"_

"Wease?" Anya tapped on the door. "You know, as _adorable_ as your bare ass is, I'm not sure I want to walk through the house and see it. I'm gonna shut the door now, 'kay?"

"Hey Anya!" He looked back over his shoulder. "I'm pissing green!"

"Good for you," She giggled from the doorway, the absurdity of it all. "You shitting gold too?"

"Hey, that's a good one!" He swung around to congratulate her, business still in hand, a wash of green spraying over the wall.

"Weasel!"

"Sorry," He jerked himself back to the toilet. "I'll clean that up." He chuckled to himself. "I'm pissing _green_,"

Morbid curiosity took over her better judgment. "How long you been in here?"

"Bout two minutes," He shrugged. "Almost done."

"You've been peeing that long?"

"I drank a lot," He admitted sheepishly, as the flow began to ease up some. "Pissin' green!" He yelled in triumph, giving himself a shake as Anya walked away, wondering if Charles Xavier was a friend in deed as well as a friend in need.

* * *

"What'cha doin'?" Wade padded out of his room sleepily, absently rubbing his chest. "S'too late to be awake, Anya."

"Easter eggs," She replied simply, dunking another into the violet dye she'd been playing with.

"What?" He yawned, standing behind her.

"I'm dying the edible ones so the kids can help make the potato salad for the second grade picnic lunch," She pointed to the cartons ser aside, labeled to the nines. "It's for our Easter egg hunt, they find them, we chop them up, everyone gets a plate and goes home fed."

"You don't look like an Easter bunny," He teased, tugging on the end of her braid. "You don't even look like a Playboy Bunny."

She glanced back over her shoulder. "I have to help hide eggs for the kids in my class, just go back to sleep."

"What class?"

"The class I'm a teacher's aide in, Wade, we talked about this, remember? It's part of my schoolwork to participate." She looked at the two cartons she had left to dye. "This is gonna take a while."

"Oh," He remembered, fuzzily, that she was an aide in a class full of bratty seven and eight year olds whose worlds were dominated by _High School Musical_ and _Hannah Montana_ school supplies.

"Just go back to sleep,"

"Kay," He tugged the end of her braid again, playfully. "Don't hide any chocolate eggs, Anya, the kids'll never forget it."

Grinning, she shook her head. "I'll save those for you, babe,"

"Kay," Another yawn. "Anya?"

"Yes Wade?" _Patience, grasshopper_, a little voice reminded.

"You paintin' those too?"

"I already made you a Spiderman egg to smash, never fear." She pointed to the far end of the table, to the lamp she'd set up to dry the painted ones more quickly. "And a Wolverine, a Sabertooth, and I painted some raw ones too, so you can _smoosh_ their guts on the sidewalk."

"You're the best."

* * *

Anya walked into the kitchen, dropping her shopping bag on the table. "You're using my blender." A couple fresh limes rolled out, followed by an orange.

"Margaritas." Weasel looked up. "Hey, cool, now we can do tequila shots!"

"Oh, right, Cinco de Mayo." She nodded. "I wondered why there were taco wrappers all over the floor."

"Make you one." Weasel dipped another glass in salt. "Wade drank damn near a whole gallon already."

"He makes shitty margaritas," Wade put in, sucking on a lime wedge.

"Strawberry," Anya tossed Weasel the plastic clamshell carton from her grocery bag. "I'll break out the stash."

"Stash?"

"Chips and salsa," Anya crouched down, shuffling aside bags of carrots and mixed greens. She set a jar of chunky salsa on the table, and sauntered back to the pantry, returning a moment later with a bag of tortilla chips in hand. "Let's party like the _gringos_ we are; margaritas with cheap salsa and chips."

"I've got Mexican in me," Weasel argued, the blender whirring away.

Wade cut another lime in half, sucking thoughtfully on a slice. "Where'd you hide those?"

She twisted the lid off the salsa. "Veggie drawer, and behind the oatmeal canisters."

"Aah, the one place I dare never look. The _green_ place." Wade mock-shuddered. Weasel snickered. "Feliz Cinco de Mayo, ladies."

* * *

"Mercenaries celebrate Labor Day?" Anya lifted her eyebrows, flopping on the couch beside him. Dressed in a pair of short shorts and a matching black tank top, she looked about as relaxed as she could with an assassin and assassin helper in her home.

"Fuck yes we do," Wade commandeered her _Ben and Jerry's_ with a sound of pleasure. "We work, don't we? My job's a fucking bitch some days, ask Wease,"

He grinned. "Yeah, they're nothing quite like dealing with Wade when he's feeling cranky because that nasty rash flared up when he wanted to put on his Speedo and go roller blading,"

Anya snorted, taking back her ice cream. "You want some, go get it yourself."

"You brought two spoons, Anya," He took the pint back, along with a spoon, and commenced shoveling.

"I like to eat a lot." She deadpanned, turning on the TV. "Funny, isn't it, how everybody gets the day off work, but newscasters still have to report?" The afternoon news was on, with that Latina weather girl Weasel had the hots for. "Hey Weas, I think I can see your girlfriend's thong,"

He ignored her soundly, feigning dignified silence. "And talk show hosts,"

"That doesn't count, it's all pre-recorded," Anya skimmed through the channel guide. "See, they're all reruns today." She reached over and dug a spoonful of ice cream from the carton, ignoring Wade's eyes on her hand, so very dangerously close to his lap. "Don't even think it, Merc-boy,"

"Yeah, nothing airs live anymore." Weasel commented off-handedly. "Not since that dude offed himself on camera." Anya pulled the spoon out of her mouth, suddenly losing her taste for ice cream.

"And that news chick blew her brains out on camera," Wade added, digging a chunk of brownie out of the ice cream.

"That never aired." Anya put her spoon on the coffee table. "And can we please stop talking about people killing themselves? It's not exactly a happy topic for me."

"Anya,"

"Wade, _my father blew my brains out_, remember?" She embraced herself, suddenly cold. "_I_ tried how many times to kill myself?" Her voice rose in pitch; Weasel went pale and gawked at her. "_You've_ tried how many times?"

"Chill,"

"Exactly!" She shouted. "We were all supposed to just hang out today and relax, but once again we spend another freaking holiday discussing the finer points of murder, homicide, suicide and porno!"

"We never talked about porno!" Wade shouted back. "Not once!"

"Oh my God!" Anya jumped off the couch and ran up the stairs, growling and cursing under her breath.

"Don't you blame this on the porno!" Wade yelled after her, the slamming bedroom door punctuating her anger. "Porno makes America great!"

* * *

Wade walked into the living room, looking mildly confused and somewhat chafed. "Did we miss one?"

"Huh?" Anya pushed aside the basket of towels she'd finished, and started on the underwear.

"Holiday," Wade mused, watching her fold his underoos. "We've done something for every holiday so far, well, the ones we bother with." He rubbed the back of his head absently. "What are we missing?"

"Didn't do mother's day, father's day, boss appreciation day…" Her brow furrowed. "What's the date?"

"October sixteenth," She had a wall-calendar of sickeningly adorable kittens, each day marked off with a red slash.

"Oh," Anya looked over at the newspaper, to the grocery ad she'd pulled out earlier. "It's Sweetest Day."

"Huh?"

"Hallmark made it up."

"Figures." He flopped down next to her, flipping on the TV to watch Golden Girls. "When's Deadpool Day?"

Anya didn't miss a beat. "April first."

* * *

"Aren't you two a little old for trick-or-treating?" Raggedy Ann looked at them suspiciously, a candy bowl in her arms.

"Just shut up and give us some candy!" The taller of the two, a bed sheet ghost, shook his plastic pumpkin at her menacingly. "Make with the treats, lady, unless you're about to give us a trick."

She put a hand on her hip, lips curving up in a smirk. "Tricks are for kids," She kicked stray leaves with her foot. "Silly ghost,"

"Wrong tricks," The ghost leered.

"The candy is for the kids," Raggedy Ann waved another group of brats over, while nervous looking mothers lingered on the sidewalk.

"Booze works," The ghost shoved a Spiderman aside impatiently. "We also take major credit cards, cash, porn…"

"Are you okay?" Raggedy Ann helped the kid up off his butt, dropping a handful of candy into his pillowcase. "I'm so sorry, he's off his meds."

"Nude photos," His _Hee Haw_ inspired companion chimed in, hooking a thumb in his overall strap. "You got any of those lying around?"

"Weasel, you diseased little monkey, this is Anya we're beggin' from!" The ghost clapped him on the back. "You're growing up on me,"

"Aw shucks, Pa," He scuffed the ground with his boot, mocking bashfulness. "Can we go to the park and watch the bums scare the tourists? Aw gee, ya know I love that!"

"You guys are scaring away my trick-or-treaters!" A princess and a firefighter scurried away without their requisite handful of treats. "Why don't you just go egg Xavier's or disrupt mass?" A girl in a nun's habit glared at her, holding out a Unicef box. "Sorry sister,"

* * *

"Anya, I got the cranberry…" Weasel walked in the front door, greeted by the warm, sweet smell of freshly baked bread and cinnamon. "Mm, your place smells good."

"Thank goodness, I was starting to think you got mugged," She took the cans from him. "You'd think these things were the last stamps in a ration book the way they go," She walked past him, skirt swishing against her knees. "You gonna go watch TV with Wade while I finish up? Should be about an hour before we eat." Her voice rang out above the ringing of her kitchen timer. "There's snacks in the living room, if Wade didn't eat them all."

"Jesus, how many people are coming for Thanksgiving?" The table was set for three, but laden for at least two dozen, a spread from a magazine photo shoot. Weasel peeked past her into the kitchen, at pies cooling on the countertop and mixing bowls waiting to be dealt with. Pots on the stove were threatening to bubble over, a mishmash of warm and homey scents assaulting him.

"Just you and Wade," She shrugged modestly, setting the cans in the fridge. "It's not much, but it should do. Did you want to invite someone?"

* * *

"You're back." Anya greeted warmly, draping a fleece blanket over the back of 'Weasel's' recliner. "I'm guessing it went well, seeing as you're here instead of at the Hell House."

"Got you a present," He tossed his bag at her gracelessly, kicking off his boots. His thick, fur-lined coat followed, tossed into a chair. Patiently, Anya walked around him and picked up his coat and boots, setting them beside the door on the mat as she hung his coat in the closet.

"Ooh, laundry, just what I wanted." Anya dragged his bag back toward the couch, where her laundry baskets lay. "You'd better knock it off Wade Wilson, Santa's gonna get jealous."

"Sort it; I got dirty underwear and shit in there." He padded off toward the kitchen; singing candy jingles under his breath.

"I'm hoping shit isn't literal," She tugged at the drawstring, wrinkling her nose when she odor of dirty socks wafted out. "I _never_ get used to that." Quickly, she began to sort his clothes; underwear from uniforms, civvies, the long brown coat that had a vaguely sinister stain on the back, but no bullet holes to mend. "You didn't get shot, did you?"

"They shot at me," He called back, poking around the fridge. Christmas was a week away and she'd already started cooking. "Didn't hit me."

"There's nothing really gross in here, is there?" Anya poked a little deeper. "No dismembered people parts, no random sex toys…no _literal _shit."

"Would I do that to you?" Wade reappeared, mask peeled back up over his nose, cold taco from _her_ dinner in hand. "Don't you trust me?"

"Wade, I know for a fact that you and Weasel still play ding-dong-ditch at the Xavier Institute," He didn't deny it, finishing the taco in two bites. "And I'm pretty sure you guys were the ones that left the flaming bag on Harry Osborn's doorstep."

"Yeah, that was us." He peeled off his mask the rest of the way and dropped it on the table, making himself comfortable on her couch. "Got food?"

"What's this?" In the very bottom of his bag, there was a small velvet box, tied up with a ribbon. "Did you cut off someone's toe for Patch's Christmas?"

"Don't open it yet," He snuck a glance at her, sidelong, as she set the box aside in favor of some laundry.

"What is it?" She hefted the basket, still eying the small box curiously.

"Don't open it, I wanna watch." He was pouring half a bottle of hot sauce on the plate of burritos she'd made him. "Later."

"Can I open it now?" Anya picked up the box, turning it over in her hands. "Wade?" She looked at the television; _Maude_. "Oh, right." Quietly, box back on the table, she sat down and waited for the end of the show.

* * *

He threw the box at her. "Open it,"

"Now?" She sat down beside him, dressed for bed. "It's almost eleven-thirty," A yawn escaped her. "I was gonna say good-night and head upstairs,"

"Go on,"

Carefully, she untied the ribbon. "If this is a finger, toe, or some other part of a human, I'm going to be very cross." She looked down at the box, so tiny and undemanding. "It's not even Christmas yet."

"It's pretty the way it is," Anya laughed "Maybe I'll just leave it for later." She considered it again. "Or I could open it right now and not wonder."

"You should probably do that, before I forget."

"Oh my God." Inside the little box was a gold engagement ring. She knew what it looked like, Jimmy had described it to her years and years ago, teasing her about it, something Wade had paid a lot of attention to.

"I guess Wade was gonna give that to you," Deadpool's voice was quiet in her ears, probably stifled by her sobs. "After Africa,"

"He kept saying we were gonna go someplace nice," Her voice cracked, growing thick. "Take a break from…" She lost her words in a sob, dropping the box as both hands went to cover her face. "Oh my God!"

"Don't cry." Aw fuck, _too late_. Should'a seen that one coming.

"Why didn't you follow us?" She glared at him, hands slipping low enough for her to see. Her eyes were tear-filled, threatening to spill over. "I yelled for you; I cried and cried and begged Jimmy to let me go, take me back to the clearing," She'd spent weeks trying to escape him, to get back into the jungle, to do something besides lay in that godforsaken hospital bed and realize everything all at once. "I kept trying, but he never let me." He barely let her out of his sight until they made it to Canada, and she ran away one night. "And I did finally make it back one day, to the base, but you were already gone." The same night Victor had caught her, though she didn't put up much fight, and taken her to Three Mile Island. "Nobody was there, it was abandoned."

"Department H took him," He couldn't help but lean over and half-hug her, a sympathetic squeeze of her shoulders, she looked so pathetic.

Her lower lip trembled becomingly. "You are him."

"Anya," Parts of him were, and mostly would remain, Wade Wilson, but he'd never be that bastard again. He was Deadpool.

"You are." She sniffed, wiping her eyes carefully, trying not to cry. "You are Wade Wilson, whether you like it or not, that _is_ who you are. Why do you think you remember me?" He'd never been able to answer that, not to her or Weasel, or why he felt the compulsion to keep her out of harm's way. "_Anya_ wouldn't mean anything to you unless you're Wade. You were the first person that ever called me Anya," She sniffled again, uselessly. "Used to be the only one, nobody else was allowed."

"You're…"

"Nu-uh," She shook her head, curls bouncing. "My name was Adanya Natalia Winters, and you called me Anya." She sniffled and fidgeted. "I took your name when Xavier offered to change mine, so I'd have a fresh start in a new place."

"Adanya," He repeated the silly sounding name. "You don't look like _Adanya_,"

"I was a stuck-up, uptight, scared little snot when you met me." She smiled despite herself. "I hated myself, I was afraid of the things I could do, the things I'd done. I was a nervous wreck, constantly up and down. I'd have one good day and four bad to follow. Still feels that way sometimes," She shrugged, picking at her nightgown. "You said you were going to tame me, and I'd tame you."

"Anya," _That_ sounded familiar.

"I fell for you first, go figure." A nervous laugh accompanied her weak smile. "Do you remember that? When Jason…Jason knew I liked you, so he tried to kill you. You came…back to yourself, I dragged you back. Even before that, you had me. I think you had me since that stupid Christmas party when we were kids, when my dad told me you were forbidden before we'd said hello,"

"You saved me," He could remember, fuzzily and he used to think it was just a random dream, an angel with dark hair and red eyes, very soft and warm, smelling like vanilla and honeysuckle and Herbal Essences shampoo.

"I needed you," She admitted guiltily. "I wouldn't let you go insane, I couldn't. You were helping me." Her voice cracked, childlike. "Pretty selfish, right? Sweet, sincere, perfect little Anya's just a conniving bitch under it all." She leaned back against the couch. "You let me off my leash, I wouldn't let him destroy you."

"I'm gonna give you my heart," He recited slowly, as though remembering words from lifetimes ago. "You don't have to love me back, but I'm gonna love you anyway."

"Oh my God." A shivery laugh escaped her, followed up by more tears. "You heard me," She smothered another laugh with her hand. "I never knew you actually heard me, you never said anything about it." She laughed again, shaky and breathless. "Even after we started having sex, and you teased me about everything."

"I didn't lose it all, Anya," He plucked the little gold ring from the box, playing with it. "Why d'you think I never went completely around the bend?" The corner of his lips twitched. "I had something to think about, something they didn't take from me. I remembered this, so I had Jimmy's X-geeks go hunting around Alkali Lake and Three Mile, in case it survived."

She looked at his hands. "You put it on a chain,"

"Figured you might wanna wear it," _A ring could be kinda awkward to explain, 'specially since she _couldn't_ be linked to Deadpool, the things he did._

**You're thinking in the third person again, 'Pool. **

_Might wanna pay attention, she looks ready to jump your bones._

Will you both shut the motherfuck up; I'm trying to look all sensitive and deep here! Goddamn, what's a man gotta do to get a little peace and quiet!

**You're such a dick, Wade. **

Pay attention, bros; she's got that look!

**Did he just fucking call us **_**bros**_**? It's official, 'Pool, we gotta smoke the dill weed. **  
_  
Heh, smoke the weed. Heh, heh._**You're pathetic. I'm voting him off the Motherfucking Island.  
**  
"Will you put it on me?" She half turned, leaning toward him.

"Sure," His hands, _curse yous_, trembled slightly when he unclasped the necklace. Anya lifted her hair, she really wanted to cut it but he wouldn't let her, and waited until she felt the chain fall back against her neck, the ring a small, secure weight against her collarbone.

"Are you Wade or Deadpool right now?" She wiped her face with both hands, smiling in a slightly nervous way he found charming.

"Wade." He paused a moment, considering. "Yeah, I'm Wade."

"Good." She sniffed again, looking happier, a very gentle glow in her skin. "Cause Wade had a thing about kissing me when I cried," She leaned forward before he could protest, arms going tight around his neck. "Especially when it was something he did."

_Guh_.


	10. Eight and Blue Prompts

**Yoga.**

Anya exhaled gently, bending forward until her forehead touched the floor. Weasel watched her, holding his breath, as she rose, each motion as fluid and graceful as a dancer, seemingly effortless, and she bent backward, arching her back with a soft grunt until the back of her head touched her ankles. She made it look so effortless, all willow-limbs and sleek muscles rippling under her skin, so strong and fragile in the same breath.

"Awful bendy, Anya," He commented finally, as she dropped herself to the floor, straddle split, arms extended.

"I cheat," She smiled at him over her shoulder. "You know that."

**Postcards.**

Anya was used to going weeks and weeks without hearing from Wade and Weasel. It made their time together sweeter, and it meant she could spend her time studying. Working at the diner was something to do, but it paled in comparison to dreaming up lesson plans and coordinating classroom activities for her pretend munchkins. Hours on class work; days on preparing for her next in-class assignment. Her days remained too full for missing her boys; tromping the city, going out with girls, hitting street markets and taking endless photos with kids from Xavier's.

And then the postcards started.

Morocco first, a couple scribbled lines on a postcard featuring a Barbary Lion. Then Spain. Then a box from Italy, a collection of soaps and lotions, among the finest things Florence has to offer, with a long and beautifully illustrated letter that spoke more of Wade than it ever could of Deadpool. A postcard from London, a bottle of perfume from Germany...little presents with notes, postcards, pictures...never a return address, always re-routed through nine or ten postal services, sometimes hand-delivered by men she knew by reputation rather than face...

And the ache she'd almost forgotten, the switchblade of pain she'd damped down when Wade had given up on her at Xavier's, began to gnaw on her anew, with each day he didn't come home, each present, each scrap of paper. Jimmy saw it right away; how sad and tired she looked, how little she spoke, how fleeting her appetite had become. She hardly smiled for Kitty and Jubes anymore, and Kendrick was enough to send her straight home without a sound.

And he hated Deadpool all the more for it.

**Puppy.**

Anya was afraid to get a puppy. They liked to chew things and they got underfoot and then there was the house-breaking and the training and the walking...and Wade. Wade had an aversion to things cute, cuddly, fluffy, or adorable. Puppies yap and whine...but she decided to anyway. And so Chaucer the basset hound found himself making a comfy spot on her couch while she adjusted his collar. He was lazy for a pup, demanding only two walks a day, and relieving himself discreetly two or three times a day, and only when she was home to let him out. Chaucer liked to share Cheese Nips and Tootsie Rolls with Wade, who gave excellent ear rubs. Chaucer also liked to lick Wade's hands. Chaucer didn't know, on that particular day, Wade was covered in poison. Neither did Wade.

Anya never had the heart to tell Wade what killed Chaucer. And Wade never was cruel enough to get her another puppy.

**Baby.**

Anya sighed and handed her basket to Wade. "Hold this," She swept her hair back in one sleek motion and walked over to the frizzled looking couple. "Hi,"

"Hi," The wife was trying frantically to calm her shrieking baby. Her husband shook a rattle at the wailing infant as his wife cooed. "Sorry, she's usually so good about the market,"

"May I?" Anya held her hands out, earning a surprised glance from the woman, who handed over the squalling infant none the less. Her husband shrugged, apparently at a loss.

"Her name's Anna,"

"Hi Anna," Anya shouldered her, getting a feel for the heft of her. Eight months, overfed, pained. "I know, I know," Anna howled indignantly. The woman watched her with narrow, hawkish eyes.

"Here we go," Anya shifted Anna, turning her around, taking the weight of the baby on the flat of her palm, holding her in place with a hand on her back.

Anna belched and quieted instantly.

"All better," Anya handed her back to her mother. The frazzled blonde looked caught between murderous and thankful.

"You have the magic touch." The husband stared at her gratefully. "Anna gets so loud," He stroked the baby's hair tenderly. "Do you have children?"

Anya flushed miserably. "No," She dropped her eyes, looking away. The husband seemed oblivious, the wife was more tactful.

"Thank you,"

**Dance.**

"Shimmy shimmy coco-bop, shimmy shimmy bop," Anya started to dance, swinging her hips bewitchingly. "Along came a native girl, did a native dance," She pulled Wade to his feet, giggling and dancing. "It was like in paradise, put me in a trance." Her skirt that day was long and full, taking him back in time to a sweaty hotel room, the sound of drums. "Goin' shimmy shimmy coco-bop, shimmy shimmy bop." She tugged at his hands, moving him along with her. His mind was elsewhere, seeing her twist and move for him, her skirt dropping to the floor along with her inhibitions, a plain white blouse her only modicum of modesty. Her hair, long and straight, fell down her back. He was shirtless, banging away on a bongo drum, and she danced like a nymph, exotic and exhilarated, her eyes on him.

**Power.**

"Oh, fuck me," The lights flickered and died, leaving Anya in the middle of her essay with a quarter of a battery left on her laptop.

"If you insist," Wade appeared in the doorway, holding a Zippo. "But you're usually so subtle."

"Great," Anya sighed and saved her work, closing the computer. "I'm going to have to type like hell in the morning, because Professor numb-nuts doesn't accept paperwork, it's all on the fucking computer."

"You are kinda cranky, aren't you?" Wade came in closer, fingering the top of her dresser for a candle. He found one and lit it, bathing her in soft yellow. "Bad day?" He snapped the lighter shut.

Anya gave a wan smile. "Bad everything," Wade handed her the candle, sitting down on the bed opposite her. "Everything sucks." He smirked at her. "Well, not _everything_."

"That's my girl."

**Scream.**

Weasel has heard a lot of sounds from Anya. He's heard her laugh over his crappy jokes, sigh over sweet little stupid things, giggle helplessly when Wade tickled her...he'd heard her shriek when she saw spiders crawling around the apartment...but he'd never heard her _scream_. He heard it from three blocks away, his arms full of the paper sack from the gas station, a morning run for donuts, Mountain Dew, Monster and juice. He dropped the bag and hauled ass, narrowly missing becoming road kill in an irate squeal of tires and the outraged honk of a horn. He ran blindly, fumbling around his pocket for the panic button, his thumbnail digging into it, sending an alarm to Wade's beeper. _Anya. Danger._

Weasel ran like hell to get upstairs to her apartment, his heart thudding in his ears, barely seeing where he was going until he slipped and face-planted just beyond the top of the stairs, the floor slick and wet with something thick and warm, pungent.

_Blood._

"Anya!" Her door was wide open, paths of rich sanguine color like stripes of candy-cane print carpet leading inside.

Her sheets, normally pristine and white as clouds, were snagged and rumpled and streaked heavily with blood. It trailed thick and heavy on the bed, to a streaky spatter across the carpet. He could make out a hand print on the windowsill, drops of blood on the glass, on the night table...and all at once he was jerked off his feet, rammed against the wall. Behind his head, glass spider-webbed in the picture frame.

"Where is she?" Wade's hand on his throat made it hard to take a breath. There was a cold, cruel lack of humanity in his eyes, face unmasked, a look Weasel had only ever seen when Wade was on a job. The hand tightened.

Weasel's feet kicked uselessly as his world grew black around the edges. "I dun-nno," The last of his breath rattled around his throat, tidal breath, the absolute bottom of your lungs. "Waa-" The black swallowed him up.

* * *

Finally! I haven't abandoned anything, I swear. My laptop, with everything on it, decided to go all UNMOUNTABLE_BOOT_VOLUME on me and I've yet to get anything back from the repair guy, so I'm typing by the seat of my ever-loving pants when and where I can. Bleh. Have a little faith, guys, please!


End file.
